


Takes Its Meaning From The Nobler Part

by grasssea



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternatively Titled: Baby Steps Into Smut, F/M, If I Write And Post A Lot It Will Get Better, Stream of Consciousness, That Turned Into A Bad Character Piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:30:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6827803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grasssea/pseuds/grasssea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer on Chloe and the evolution of lust, which- like all things- gets inevitably complicated and more difficult to deal with.</p><p>(In his defense his experience with delayed or non-existent gratification is limited.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Takes Its Meaning From The Nobler Part

**Author's Note:**

> You all give terribly nice comments and it's a bit heady and the show's very good so I needed to write more and I just wanted to write something hot but then it changed tenses and changed points of view and got terribly ramble-y and I apologize and also Lucifer's head is like blasphemy central and I think I need to go apologize to my dead Catholic great grandmother. Dangerously unedited. I'm fairly certain this is awful, but there's only one way to find out.

Desire is his domain. His realm, his area of expertise. He’s seen humans grow and change and spread, and has always been charmed by their passions, so much like his. He knows how want only grows in the face of unavailability, it’s practically rule one.

So it shouldn’t be surprising that his attraction to Chloe Decker shifts and develops at a rapid pace.

It starts out like this, she’s pretty and interesting and he’s used to pretty and interesting people folding into his arms because he’s pretty and interesting too.

(It’s not vanity if it’s true.)

And a bit of combativeness, obvious sexual tension, an environment of danger, that just makes it all the more appealing. He hasn’t had a good round of hurried hurried, front of the police car, work-all-our-issues-out sex in months. Blame it on a charming personality.

He’s not a teenage boy, he doesn’t daydream, but he is _aware_ of the possibilities. What she probably looks like under that textbook undercover jacket, jeans, and boots combo. How her hair would fall into his face if she leaned over him- because she’s definitely the sort who would want to be in control and Lucifer doesn’t mind pretending to cede it if it makes his partners happy- and how her voice would drop low and blood would rush to her face. 

It’s rather vivid, to be honest, from the cool glass sensation of the imaginary window to the callouses on her imaginary hands. But a bit of imagination isn’t a bad thing. He leaves it be, even as she continues to refuse to sleep with him, because sometimes that happens.

(Yes, it’s confusing, because usually people who don’t want him don’t want him for reasons of orientation or attraction, and Chloe Decker is clearly attracted to him, he can see it in the flicker of her pupils and the sigh of her breath. Life is full of mysteries, clearly.)

Besides, as soon as it starts it changes. Chloe Decker is cleverer than he thought, fun to be around on multiple levels, and suddenly a bit of fun in a car or a nice alley next to a crime scene or a convenient looking broom closet doesn’t sound appropriate, at least not unless it’s followed up by a lot more. Chloe Decker is too much to be wasted.

She deserves all his attention, smile and kisses and warm lights so they can see all of each other. Slow and steady and detail oriented, with lots of breaks to make clever comments, to enjoy her voice and her laugh. Silk sheets and long, lingering touches fill his head, to be quickly followed up by rapid minutes of movement and fluid and pleasure. He wants to unmake her utterly bit by bit with his hands, like sculpting Adam out of dust backwards and he also wants to fail. 

But that’s fine too, it’s the sort of regard given to kings and queens, geniuses who catch his eye, or Maze when she’s in a bad mood and needs to be shaken out of it, though those sessions tend to end up a little more creative.

Multiple positions, all through the night, breaks for snacks and pillow gossip, that's how it should be and that's how he arranges it in his head. Challenging smiles and toys and anything else she wants, the mental images- and mental sensations- get a bit distracting and Maze starts giving him strange looks. 

So he wants Chloe Decker to lean over her case files next to him, intent and unshakable, and yes, he wants her to do it in his bed, preferably naked. It’s the Da Vinci treatment, sometimes brilliant humans are a bit sensitive. The detective isn’t as gentle as Leonardo, but the point stands. He’s done this before. It’s not that out of the ordinary.

The domesticity fetish, on the other hand, comes entirely out of left field.

He’s never wanted a house and a dog, much less kids. Sure, he’s been in family homes before, but usually just the bedroom and never for long. But Chloe’s is nice, her child is tolerable, and he can imagine kissing her senseless on the porch, carrying her upstairs, and sleeping in her bed until the morning.

It’s weird. Not earth shattering, but definitely strange. Not the sort of thing that happens often. Certainly not when he's on a dedicated quest to disappoint the patron god of boring. He knows how to run with his passions though, so he tries cooking her breakfast, gets rudely shut down, and decides it’s all just an unfortunate side effect of extended exposure to little Beatrice. He’s seen what children do to people. They’re practically infectious.

Yes, he wants to fall asleep with her head tucked under his chin. Skin contact is fun. He’s not going to apologize for it. And it’s not like he doesn’t still want her writhing with pleasure, it’s just tied with wanting her around for cases and danger and a bit of a challenge… and apparently cuddles before _and_ after coitus under duvets in midsized suburban houses. He doesn't even know what he bedroom looks like. He can guess, of course, it's easy, but that's not the point. 

He wants her blushing and giggling and shouting and sighing and moaning and he wants it in at least a dozen locations, and that's just so far. There's a glut of options and every one looks better than the last and it's overwhelming. The Devil doesn't get overwhelmed. 

Luckily there are developments afoot, and mortality in play and suburbia gets displaced in the forefront of his mind by something far more exciting and far less disturbing; knives.

He doesn’t like pain, at least not in large quantities. Though there is something about an ache (or a sting or the sensation of getting buried in concrete) that is just delicious, actual mortal pain turns out to be terribly distracting. Blood starts rushing away from important parts of anatomy and it’s hard to concentrate on the important things, like proper hand placement or good rhythm.

But peril, the idea of pain, the threat of oblivion, kissing Death and getting away with it in a purely metaphorical sense because Death isn’t his type, now that is tempting.

It’s even more tempting when Chloe Decker is theoretically involved. She’s all danger and sharp edges and strange hollows of vulnerability and the echoing memory of pain, the idea of her and imminent danger in the same room sounds like a rip roaring good time. Make it licentious and it’s the sort of thing to make one’s breath catch.

Blonde hair braided back until all the angles of her face are knife sharp, a sharp knife in her hands, danger without real threat. Skin on skin and metal on skin, it remind him of Maze in a way, except when he lets Maze hold a blade to his throat she understands exactly what she’s doing. The detective seems like she could wander through hell and declare it a bit balmy.

Admittedly it’s a bit too fun for a straight laced cop, but he’s the undisputed ruler of loosening up and breaking boundaries, and she is a bit of a control freak. Lucifer thinks he can probably convince her to sit on top of him naked and possibly endanger his eternal life.

After all, nothing else has worked.

(It doesn’t work)

 

 

Sundry desires dance around in his head for weeks, folding and combining in unique and occasionally horrifying ways in silent hours and dark moments.

It is entirely possible he may have previously underestimated the tendency to always want most what you can’t have, since his only previous experiences are with his father’s love and the affections of few select souls (and bodies) with tragic religious fixations- which is a huge turn off to begin with. Since the detective isn’t hanging symbols of the Tyrant Above everywhere and is too fun to let go of, he has to stick around and continue suffering rejection- even as visions of steamy recreations of the ending scene in Hot Tub High School become increasingly inventive.

It gets worse from there on out.

It’s not even that he’s thinking about sex all the time. He’s used to that.

It’s the nature of the thing. Comforters and ranch houses and schedules involving babysitters are bad enough. Being willing to let Chloe Decker, a very capable woman, hold him at any-weapon-she-wants-point, is mildly disturbing. The growing tendency to yearn for kisses without even some heavy petting afterwards makes him consult google and several young people.

(Combining it into one bizarre car ride day dream involving Fourth of July fireworks watching on a picnic blanket turning into acrobatic bondage sex in some bushes followed by entirely wholesome pie eating is probably the fault of consecutive google searches and the power of the internet.)

Even the idea of her actually killing him isn’t a deterrent as if the benefit of staying around her out weighs the risk. He wants and he wants and he wants, skin on skin and late nights tracking down dead end leads and her stubborn flush. Even that isn’t quite the issue at hand, a bit of an obsession can be allowed once in awhile. Slavering mania is the spice in life.

The problem is that it stops being about him anymore.

 

 

His thing is desire. Sure, there may be some other tosser who claims it’s actually his out there, but Lucifer knows the truth.

Real passion isn’t about passing fancies and helpless magnetism, everything pale and empty. It’s fire and selfishness and never letting go. The selfishness is the important part. There can be kindness too, in the hot pride of protecting what’s yours, your reputation and your allies. Generosity for the sake of spontaneity, showers of champagne and orgies that leave everyone sated just because you can.

Want to do it? Do it, or him, or her or them; preferably in the most dramatic manner possible until it’s all worked out and you can move onto something else.

There’s no pious lies or forced martyrdom or hypocrisy. It’s pure, honest id, as certain psychologists would say.

His understanding of selflessness vacillated for centuries between ‘quaint delusion dad cooked up after the apple thing got out of hand’ and ‘excuse for masochists to get off before dying’. It hovered around ‘metaphysical Santa Claus but less fun’ right up until the Decker thing became the Decker case and eventually the grand Decker/Espinoza/Graham/Maze/betrayal debacle complete with guns and dying and actually talking to father dearest for the first time in millennia and mother dearest escaping her hellish prison. After which there were quite a few things to think about, first and foremost the concept that he could want things involving Chloe but not involving him at all.

He understands wanting sex and warmth and companionship. He knows why people want excitement, adoration, a bout of witty repartee, a good drink, or a nice suit. He knows why people want loyalty and trust and family too. There is something to be said for safety as well as enjoyment.

It would have made sense, to beg for her life like a child or a dog if it was for some gain, some knowledge or experience. But there was none of that, not even in passing. There could be no debt owed, no triumphant return that could potentially end with her thighs keeping his ears cozy, no future happiness except hers. Even the potential satisfaction of winning against Malcolm, keeping him from committing a murder he wanted to, hadn’t come into account. It was all about her.

He could have even comprehended wanting Chloe safe if it meant being remembered forever or something sappishly ridiculous like that. Blood loss does truly awful things to people. But that hadn’t been it either. He hadn’t been thinking about himself a whit.

He knows desire, especially for her, and this is both new, utterly unacceptable, and utterly impossible to stop.

 

 

Maze finds him lying in bed face down, wearing only a towel (loosely wrapped around his head for purposes of hair drying), trying to come to terms with things.

“Are we sure you weren’t poisoned right before you met her?” Maze asks. “Or at least heavily drugged?”

“On a scale from one to hell comes crashing up, I think that might actually be less disastrous, Mazikeen.”

“Just trying to help.”

 

 


End file.
